


'Back To Normal' Probably Isn't Going To Happen

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: 'The war won't last long.'  'They'll fold up like a limp sheet once we face them down.'  'The war will be over before you know it.'  'When the war is over, we can all get our lives back to normal.'All things Peter and Andrew, and many others had heard time and time again.  Pity none of it was true, not even the last.  Maybe, in particular, that last.  They could never have foreseen just how not-normal their lives, they themselves, would be once the war was over.(Setting: Haven, after the war)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Among My Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Souvenir - a thing kept as a reminder of a person, place or event. Many people come home with such things after a journey. You know the sort of thing - plates or spoons or salt and pepper shakers with perhaps the name of the place you visited. Sometimes a doll or figurine dressed as the inhabitants of that place. Sometimes though, your souvenirs are something quite different, especially if the journey was a difficult one, and often not ones you could tuck away in a drawer or pitch out with the trash. Such it was for Peter Newkirk and Andrew Carter.

POV - Peter Newkirk

Funny how the old stories told to the tykes could 'it 'ome sometimes. Take that story about Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Too much of a thing, too little of the same, versus the just right amount? They'd be giggling up a storm over the tale. Me? Twisted my gut something fierce w'enever I'd 'ear it. Could never stand to be in the same room when Maude was reading that to the little ones; would find some reason to slip away. 

Brought back too many memories, it did. Too much? Too little? All that could be bloody 'ard to deal with. Just ask me. After all, I've more than a little experience with both sides of the coin, well ALL sides, if you count the 'just right' being the 'on edge' side of the coin, a mite slimmer than the other sides, acourse. 

W'at would turn me against a simple children's bedtime story, you ask? Especially since that particular one never ended with anyone getting eaten, which aint always the case with those stories, you know.

It's just . . . Well, take something as simple as 'water'. Sometimes in the cooler, there'd be one small metal cup, maybe not even a quarter full, meant to last you all day and night. Once a day water got put in there. If you were lucky. Laying on that cold shelf as was meant for your bed, feeling your mouth all puckered up like a dried-out sponge, you'd ache for even a few drops, knowing it wasn't going to 'appen, not for 'ours yet. There were those who took to drinking their own piss, you know, just like those you'd read about on a shipwreck; never turned out well, not from anything I ever 'eard. Sent one bloke, stuck in there for two solid months, stark raving mad. Ended up getting 'imself shot with rushing the fence not five minutes after 'e got out, 'is mind long gone.

Sometimes, if you 'ad the misfortune to get Klemmer or Varner as yer guards? Water meant a full bucket, that you were laughingly invited to take a drink from, and then your 'ead shoved under til you couldn't 'old yer breath any more, and you sucked in enough to clog your lungs. Would come to, gagging up w'at you could, coughing up more, but never all. No, never all. The bucket was then tossed on the floor, water sinking into the cracks beneath, leaving you nothing, except w'at was in your lungs. That, w'at you couldn't rid yourself of, that would end up just sitting in there, getting moldy and nasty inside you, making you sicker and sicker as time went on, especially as it repeated, day after day. Still surprised that didn't put an end to me; figure it 'ad something, more than a little, to do with my lungs never being w'at they should be after the war. Well, I'll admit, the early coal tars of the East End, the smokes, that 'ad a lot to do with it, but those times of inhaling enough mucky water to leave me with a pounding 'eadache for days after couldn't 'ave 'elped any. 

No, with water, there was the right amount, right w'en you needed and appreciated it most, and then there was the other - too little or too much. 

Now, at 'aven, every meal, there's water at my plate, and a pitcher close at 'and. There's the pump to give plenty w'en I've a thirst in between. Canteens to tie on the saddles w'en we're out and about, another to latch to my belt w'en we're out walking. And in my bedroom at 'aven, or in Caeide's room, or Andrew's? W'erever I'm likely to be? There's not one, but two jugs of water with lids attached to keep it fresh and clean, and a trio of glasses flipped upside down to do the same. Done up fresh, every blessed night, without fail, and the knowing it's there? No one who'd never done without would ever understand 'ow much that meant. Nothing's said, no special fuss made about it, but it's always there, still.

As for food, too much, even of the good stuff, you could make yourself sick. Leastwise, so I've 'eard. Of course, 'ave to admit, that's only 'earsay on my part. Never 'ad enough of the good stuff to make a good test of it, early on, and by the time I did land in a spot 'ere w'ere that was possible, I'd enough sense not to force the matter. Nothing like only being able to stomach clear broth and plain bread for weeks on end to teach you that lesson. Not that my ladies were like to put me to the test anyway, them 'aving more sense than that, but still . . .

Now, too little, well, aint no one who's grown up in the East End of London, much less been a prisoner of war or somew'at like that w'at don't 'ave more than a little experience with that! In the camps, for example. Every time you'd think they'd cut the rations down as far as they could and still keep everyone alive, some bright soul decided it could be trimmed a little more. Bread probably 'ad more sawdust than flour in it, and some of that sawdust was probably vermin w'at crawled in and died of starvation. Meat couldn't be looked at too carefully, on the rare occasions it showed up on the table, for fear you'd figure out just w'at it really was, or just 'ow old it really was.

Bloody Kraut 'cooking', if you can call it that! No matter 'ow I used to complain about Louie's 'Frenchy' way with the pots and kettles, there was just something about Kraut cooking that turned my stomach. Even w'en I was a tyke, Mrs. Rausman, end of the block, would put something on and I could feel my stomach lurch. And wasn't that just dandy, considering I was stuck in a Kraut prisoner of war camp, doomed to be eating that swill for whoever knew 'ow long??! Even now, Caeide gets a new recipe out and starts looking it over, she can tell by the look on my face as I read along and it strikes a chord, and she can tell, without my saying a bloody word; she'll flip it over and go on to something else. Bless 'er, she might not know all the why's and w'erefores, (though she knows more than I'd like 'er to know, for certain), she always 'as been able to read me better than most. No, none of that ever 'its the table, not if she 'as any say in the matter.

'Bloody' French cooking. Now, you might 'ave figured out, I was just teasing LeBeau with all my complaining about his 'Frenchy' style of cooking. 'Ave to say, no one could 'ave done better by us. Scraps of nothing, I'd fetch 'im, though the best I could do at the time, and 'e'd turn them into something you'd never believe. Always felt bloody bad about that, us eating w'at 'e put out, the rest of the blokes in camp eating from the mess 'all. Still, we were the ones 'aving to go out and do the 'eavy lifting, and you couldn't be dashing around the w'ole bloody area, blowing up things, grabbing secret documents, and all the rest, on w'at was being dished out to the rest. A bloke 'as to 'ave energy for that, at least some, and so we ate w'at Louie dished up, and was grateful for it. Yes, I complained, always. Well, that was part of my job, the way I saw it. Louie always understood that, too, no matter 'ow it looked to others. Now, don't tell me you aint never 'ad a relationship like that!

Now, three solid meals on the table every blessed day? Not lush, not fancy, not mostly, anyhow; we don't run to fancy around 'aven, not so much. You won't find jellied fowl and buttered oysters and fifteen-course dinners 'ere at 'aven. But simple good food prepared to bring out the best of each dish offered, taking each of our likes and needs into account, enough no one goes off with their belly cramping? No, you'll get few complaints from me or Andrew either. Well, maybe a few, from me. I DO 'ave a reputation to consider, after all. 

"Peter? Are you alright, love?" her voice came out of the shadows, quiet, calm - warm and loving, not accusing or reprimanding.

I felt so damned foolish, having Caeide find me here, crouched on the bench beside the fireplace in the big room that held the big table we used for cards and drinks and such. Curled in on myself like a frightened snail, I was, and I wanted to slap myself upside the head for my stupidity.

"Sorry, just . . ."

"Ah, the story. I heard which one she was telling them, but truly it was only because they'd asked. Are you SURE you don't want me to have a word, ask her not to tell that one again? Maybe explain why?"

Now I really felt foolish. The tykes purely loved that story, would recite the words right along with Maudie by the time she got halfway through. To think of Maude being told not to tell it anymore, all on account of my memories, my souvenirs of the war and the camp, that just seemed wrong. 

Of course, that wasn't the only one. Seems there were more than a few of the children's stories that set me off, along with a few other things. And I wasn't alone in that; Andrew had more than a few things that pushed a few of his buttons as well. I felt something far too close to a whimper trying to get out, and I clamped down on the urge. Our children didn't need to know, did they? Shouldn't be burdened with what those simple stories brought to the surface.

Caeide had suggested we share what the stories brought to our minds, but we'd both protested, me and Andrew alike, thinking that was cruel beyond what could be endured. These were OUR tykes, ones we loved beyond imagining! How could we tell them things that would cause them to associate those beloved children's stories with the 'orrors we'd known?

It wasn't long, though, before she took it out of our 'ands, bless 'er, decided it was best for the whole family. Maybe, if these had been other than Clan tykes, she'd 'ave decided different, but they were Clan, through and through. Few of the Clan stories were all that simple and sweet, after all. Couldn't be, considering who they were, 'ad always been. 

She sat all the tykes down, told them that the children's stories, fairy tales and such, were like the chess playing she'd been teaching them - not on a flat board, one dimensional, like they'd started out with - but on the three-dimensional level they were starting to learn. That what seemed simple, wasn't always so; that there were layers on top of layers, some of which just weren't so easy to see. That their Da and their Daddy Andrew, along with their Mum and Maudie and Marisol and others, we 'ad things that layered in with the simple stories that they already knew. And some of those things were not so sweet and pleasing. Real, yes, but not kindly things in many cases. And they were to ask questions, if they felt the need, and that they'd get the best answers the rest of us could come up with.

And somehow, they, sweet earnest Clan tykes that they were, they started asking us questions, bless their 'earts, and so, slowly, 'esitantly, not wanting to frighten them, we let our memories, our experiences, escape into the open air, perhaps for the first time. Was a little like lancing a boil, first the pain, then the relief.

And, their understanding grew, and the stories they requested changed with their understanding. And as their understanding grew, OURS did as well. 

Would we prefer our tykes not know all that, about the souvenirs each of us 'ad carried away from the war? That they would 'ave no need? Well, acourse! But that's not the world we live in! Caeide says that's not a world that ever really existed, for that matter. 

'Opefully, w'at me and Andrew, w'at Caeide, w'at Maude and Mari went through, none of that will ever 'appen to our own tykes. But, should it turn out that it does? Maybe they'll 'ave a better chance at things, with the knowing. At least, that's what our Caeide says, and she's a knowing one, our Caeide-lass.

Now, w'en Maude tells the story of the Three Bears, and some of the others, too, there's lots more to it, and the tykes have lots more to say and understand about the story, and while in some ways that makes Andrew and me sad? In some ways, it makes us 'opeful. That they'll 'ave the tools they need, should they ever end up in the toils we ended up in.

POV: Andrew Carter

I used to feel bad, when they'd catch me crying, sometimes not making any noise, just standing there, tears in my eyes, running down my cheeks. 

Peter, now, he'd just pull me real close and hug me, hold me tight, and more than likely, that night, he'd make a point of singing a few songs when we all sat around the fireplace. Ever since the early days in the camp, I could find comfort in Peter's arms and his voice, even when he was just talking, but him singing, that was real special. Of course, in the camp, it was all pretty much the one-arm-around-the-shoulder brotherly kind of hugs, at least that's what we told ourselves for a long time. Funny, though, the comfort I got then, it was the same I get now, even though we're lovers, partners, as well as being brothers, now.

Peter would let me talk about what was making me cry, if I wanted to, but he never pushed. Well, Caeide didn't PUSH, so much as gently encourage me to talk. She said it might make me feel better and maybe let them help more if they understood the 'why'. And I tried, and sometimes I'd talk about it. The thing was, I didn't always understand the 'why' either.

But when the kids started coming along, got old enough to notice, and they'd see me with tears in my eyes, it worried them, I could tell. And when I heard Jamie asking Peter if it was something THEY'D done? I knew I had to figure things out, if not for me, then for them. I mean, that just wasn't right, our kids thinking they'd done something so bad that I was crying about it. 

Huh. Maybe Peter and Caeide had wondered that too, sometimes? That probably wasn't so fair to them either.

So, I started trying to put the pieces together, and I have to tell you, sometimes that wasn't so easy. And sometimes it hurt, sometimes a lot, reliving things enough to figure out why they could make me cry.

Like when that far room in the house got the leak, and cause we didn't go in there very often, we didn't spot it til the mold set up in one corner. Not a lot, but enough I got a good nose full when we were cleaning it out. And that took me back to that leaky barracks, where the rain would come in and sometimes the mold would grow faster than we could scrape it off. Boy, it'd get in the strangest places, and you just couldn't get the smell out til everything dried out and then sometimes it wouldn't take more than just a damp day for you to get whiffs of it, and you'd end up gagging all over again.

And picking herbs for Maude? I just couldn't do that without thinking of LeBeau and how he tried so hard to make us food that actually tasted good, and how much Peter complained about all 'that bloody French cooking' while always giving Louie that little look, one that anyone else would have taken as flip, but Louie KNOWING it was 'thanks'. Those were mostly good tears, though, when I remembered that. 

And every year when the lilacs bloom? Those lilacs in the back yard are from the cuttings I made from the old bushes in my mom's yard, the ones I took the last time I was there. Those are good tears too, mostly, anyway. I'd remember how she'd smile every time they'd bloom, how she'd always cut some to bring inside, would even dry some to put in that cracked china bowl and in little cloth bags to make the house smell nice in the winter. Maude and Caeide do that too, now, and it makes me smile right along with the tears, every time I smell lilac.

But there were sometimes some sad tears mixed in, thinking about how she died with me so far away, her not knowing I was gonna make it through the war and come back alive. 

For awhile there were tears thinking about how she was buried so far away too, where we couldn't talk the way we used to. But when Caeide heard that, how much it was bothering me, she asked me and, well, I never even knew you could DO that, have someone moved after they were gone! 

Now, there's a little spot on the other side of the lilacs, all enclosed in a little white fence, where my mom AND my dad lay right next to each other. I go out there and talk to them real often, but lilac blooming time is special; I go out there every day then. I think maybe it's kinda special for them, too. I mean, my dad was never much of a talker, but now he's starting to get real chatty, for him anyway. Go figure!


	2. Things Don't Always Make Sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOTS of things don't make sense anymore. But maybe they don't have to make sense; they just have to be real.

POV: Peter Newkirk

I don't look at myself in the mirror except when I shave; that's about all. Makes me uncomfortable otherwise.

You see, sometimes, if I'm not totally awake yet, I look up at my reflection, and it's like I'm looking at a stranger. Somehow, even now, I'm not expecting to see that scarred face. The other scars, the ones on my body, those I've gotten used to, but the ones on my face? Probably never will. Seems like I should only 'ave that one, just at my 'airline, gotten from my father when I was maybe nine or ten. Oh, 'e'd given me a few others, and 'ad collected a goodly few elsewhere, just not on my face, not before the war.

Or, sometimes, when I reach for a book or a glass or anything else, I see those strong, cunning 'magic fingers' I 'ad before the war stole them away, before that image fades and I see what I'm left with now. Oh, the bloody Nazi's did their share of the damage, like they did with Andrew, but that wasn't the whole of it. The cold, the digging, the conditions and the tasks I put them to, that gave an opening for the arthritis to set in well before we left the camp.

I miss them, those talented digits. Once I could pick any pocket, open any safe, forge any document, draw well enough to please myself anyway, though I'd never be an artist.

Now? Forget the first and third, totally. Can still do some safe work, if needs be, but it takes me three times as long as it should. The drawing? On really good days, I can actually manage that - takes me a bloody long time, and the results nowhere as good as I once could, but enough I can draw the pictures for the books we put together. 

Those books! We've done one about Andrew's pet mouse, Felix; one about Angie and 'er mysterious love, and working on one now about Andrew's cat Lucy and that orphaned badger she adopted a couple months back. 

Not that I didn't argue against that, the badger, I mean. I remember that one Andrew brought back to camp; like to took my fingers off, that one did. But so far this one is working out, the only growling, 'issing, and snapping coming from Lucy if she catches me looking at 'er 'baby' outta the corner of my eye. 

Andrew says 'e'll set it loose over in the 'wilderness' once it grows enough, but I 'ave my doubts. 'Ave a feeling even if 'e forces 'imself to do that little thing, Lucy will just go fetch it back. 

Oh, well. As long as it don't go trying to bite any of us, and keeps to the litter box Maude set up for the bloody thing, I suppose there's no 'arm done. Woulda been worse off, most likely, with that litter of bats, or the scorpions, or a host of other things Andrew takes a fancy for. Don't know there's any animal 'e wouldn't be willing to bring 'ome, though Caeide puts 'er foot down on most of that. 

Maybe that's why she didn't tell 'im no, flat out, about the badger; she'd told 'im no about 'alf a dozen things recently. 

Still don't understand, really. All the animals running about the place - dogs, cats, 'orses, sheep, goats, not to mention all the poultry and all else - you'd think 'e'd not feel the need to bring in more, but 'e does. That's our Andrew, though.

What was I . . .? Oh, yes. The scars. Funny thing, I see them, miss that 'andsome bloke I used to be. Caeide? Not like she's blind or anything, I mean, she SEES them, but some'ow DOESN'T see them. I mention them, she blinks a couple a times like she's trying to figure out w'at I'm talking about. 

Did that the other night, and she did that blink, pause, blink, then gave this little shake of 'er 'ead, scolding, but still gentle as could be. Told me, "you're the handsomest man I've ever known, Peter - now as much as back then. That will never change."

I give 'er this look, like 'yer putting me on, right??!'. I mean, I've met every one of 'er brothers, and they are all fine looking men. And 'er younger sister, Meghada, was just up 'ere last month with all of 'er crew from Brandonshire. Let me tell you, Craig and 'is guys? Not a mirror-breaker in the lot.

But she gives that little laugh deep in 'er throat, nuzzled up close, kissed me on my jaw. Said, "YOU just keep looking at the outside and seeing only the scars, Peter my love. I see YOU."

That's my Caeide for you, though; she don't always make sense, but I'd not change 'er for the world. Neither 'er or my Andrew.

POV: Andrew Carter

Sometimes he doesn't always make sense - Peter, I mean. He can get some of the darnest notions and he's so stubborn, it's like prying open a can of beans with your teeth to get him to see reason. 

Take that hangup he's got with his scars. Gee, like we notice or care! Well, yeah, we CARE. Don't get me wrong. We care that he was hurt, sure, we care a lot! But it's like he thinks they're something that should make us turn away. Like THAT'S gonna happen! Heck, we don't even really see them, at least me and Caeide and the others here at Haven.

You try to reason with him, remind him I have plenty of scars too, and so does Caeide, he just says 'that's different'. 

Funny thing about hers - well, not funny-funny, but odd enough it'd be hard to explain. Some of hers? They match his, exactly, especially that really bad one on his back. Now, there's a reason for that, but probably nothing you'd believe, so I won't go into it. Still, they're there, and if scars are so much of a big deal, you'd think hers and mine would bother him a lot. But they don't; it's like he doesn't notice them at all.

Now, none of Caeide's are on her face, and I've got just a couple there, so I asked whether those on MY face were a real, what do they call it? A real turn-off. It's never seemed that way, for him or for Caeide. Asked him, too, if that one Caeide had on her shoulder had been on her cheek instead, like with Marya, whether he'd want to look away, not get close. He got all mad, like I was insulting him or something for even thinking it would make a difference to him. Now, how does that even make sense, with all the fuss he was making about his own?

But, like I said, he just doesn't make sense sometimes. Stubborn as a brick wall, that's our Peter.


	3. Four-legged Friends (or Those Bloody Animals of Andrew's) - depending on your outlook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew thought it was the most natural, the most normal thing in the world, the affinity he had with animals. Peter looked at it somewhat differently. Oh, he admitted Andrew had a real knack with the creatures, but why did HE have to be the one with a mouth full of fur?? After all, that just wasn't normal, not for him!

POV: Andrew Carter

I still miss them sometimes. Felix, I mean. And Hasenpfeffer. And Horace the bat. And all the others I brought into camp. 

The guys let me keep Felix. They let me keep Hasenpfeffer too, even were okay with the change of plans, her being my pet instead of dinner. Til I started feeling guilty about her not having any other rabbits to talk to, and decided to turn her loose in the woods. But the rest, including Reginald the duck, and Horace the bat, and Jilly the little snake, and all the rest, they were real firm about. Bert the badger even had Peter yelling; of course, Bert did go after him like Peter was a steak dinner and Bert hadn't eaten in a week, so I can see his point. Still, he sure was pretty. Bert, I mean. Well, Peter too, but that wasn't the real point.

Well, at least I had Felix. But that just sounds wrong somehow, 'at least', like Felix wasn't worth ten times his weight in - in - well, whatever would be really valuable for a mouse.

I thought back then, it was the having something that was just mine to love and take care of that I was missing most. You know, a pet like I'd had so many of back home. In my mind, that's what I got to thinking of Peter as, kinda, if not exactly. It made me giggle to think of it that way, and I never told him, of course. Peter's a little touchy sometimes, and about the funniest things, you know.

Well, maybe that was it, partly, wanting someone, some thing just all mine like that. 

Partly, though, it was having someone I could talk to, someone who would listen and not get all upset no matter what I said. Yeah, I could talk to the guys, about SOME stuff anyway, but not about everything. 

Well, heck, I couldn't talk to anyone about how I felt about Peter, could I? Or how mad I'd get sometimes when one of the guys got hurt, or when the colonel would do something or say something mean and we all just had to take it? Or what I knew about Olsen and Langenscheidt? Or a whole bunch of other stuff.

Never mind what happened when I was questioned by the Gestapo that time. Yeah, each of us had plenty of stories about run-in's with them, even some of the regular soldiers, but I figured it was better just to let the bruises and stuff tell the story, not give too many details. And what happened when I was escorting Lieutenant Blake to where he'd meet his escort to get him back to London? Whoa, boy! Peter would have found a way to make him pay, big time, and we just didn't need the grief, then or later.

So, there was a lot I couldn't tell the guys, but stuff that was gonna keep nagging at me unless I told SOMEONE. So - Felix, and for a while Hasenpfeffer. I never told Freddie the chimp any secrets though; I liked him, but I think he had a sneaky side. I had a funny feeling he just might tell Peter. 

Here, though, I have Lucy and Charlie and Estelle and Angie and Henry and lots of other friends to talk to, tell my secrets to. Animals are good listeners, and they don't judge. 

See, there's still some things I can't talk about to Peter or Caeide or anyone else. Though not as much as you'd think anymore. They're both real good listeners, and really try to understand. Sometimes I go to Maudie or Marisol too.

But for telling secrets, things really, really private? You just can't beat a four-legged friend.

POV: Peter Newkirk

Andrew and 'is animals! That was the first real argument we 'ad after 'e came to live with us, you know, about the animals. 

Now, I'm as patient and tolerant a man as you'd ever want to meet.

Stop that laughing! Stop it right now!

Well, anyway, as I was saying, I am easy-going about most things.

What did I tell you? Stop all that noise! That is just bloody annoying, and I 'ave to say you look just a bit foolish rolling around on the floor like that, 'olding yourself, with your face all red and tears leaking out of your eyes! Hmmmmmmph!

Anyway, when Andrew came, we already 'ad Estelle, an abnormally big grey monster of a dog, and Gracie, the 'ouse cat. Andrew brought Charlie, a scrawny medium-sized dog, a mix of various, probably unlikely breeds, along with Lucy, a tortoise-shell cat. W'at with all the others outside, I figured 'e'd 'ave more than enough to satisfy 'im. Don't know w'at I was thinking, you know? This was Andrew, after all.

Still, as long as it was 'im dealing with them all, I figured it'd be okay, not cause me much grief. Charlie and Lucy slept in Andrew's room most nights, Estelle and Gracie already 'ad their place by the fireplace in the big front room.

Then Lucy 'ad kittens, four of the little blighters; personally I suspect that big tom that 'angs out around the brewing 'ouse where Maude made 'er wine and beer. Probably got the poor thing drunk on the drippings one Saturday night and took advantage, least that's my theory; 'e's always seemed the shifty sort to me. Still, not my problem, I told myself.

Even told myself that when Estelle came up in the pudding club. Caeide wasn't ready for that, 'aving planned to send 'er down to 'er parents' place to be bred properly to one of their line. Too late for that this go-around, and the only male Estelle 'ad been around recently was - you guessed it right - Charlie! Now, don't ask me 'ow an oversized wolfhound and something the size of Charlie managed that, but as Andrew told everyone, with that sappy grin on his face at the idea of puppies - 'love will find a way'. Figure Charlie musta used a bleedin' step ladder!

Still, not my problem, right? Just two puppies, with feet the size of Charlie's 'ead. And they joined with the rest of the lot in Andrew's room, so they weren't under my feet, least after we all settled in at night.

Except - they started missing Andrew when 'e'd spend the night with me in my bed. 

Now, Caeide, she thought it funny as 'ell, even if I DID wake 'er up with my yelling for 'elp. Well, 'ow would you like it, waking up one morning under a 'uge mixed pile of dogs and cats, snoring away, none of them interested in moving? Even Estelle came along, and 'er and Charlie's pups took more after 'er in size, though after 'im in looks otherwise. Waking up buried to where you couldn't breathe, so much 'air floating around you couldn't open your mouth without feeling like you'd swallowed a sweater? That purely took care of any 'morning delight' we'd intended on sharing, me and Andrew; that window of opportunity only lasts so long, and in all the fuss and bother, well - .

Then, wasn't long before some smart one of the lot figured out 'ow to wrangle the knob on Caeide's door. Oh, never except w'en Andrew was in there with us, w'en the two of us were spending the night in Caeide's bed. But I do admit to being just a little upset, considering we 'adn't even settled down to sleep yet, 'aving other activities on our minds first. By the time we got everything calmed down, all the four-legged blighters back to Andrew's room, it almost put me out of the notion after all. Almost.

Next day, we 'ad a good sit-down, and Andrew 'ad a good talk with the whole lot of them. Don't know just 'ow, but 'e managed to make them understand - a closed bedroom door is supposed to stay that way, barring an emergency. Now we just 'ave to get 'im to narrow down that definition of emergency. I was thinking more of a fire or something like that. The delivery of that dead mouse just didn't qualify in my 'umble opinion, even if it had been the first kill of that littlest kitten and 'e was bloody proud of 'imself. And even if it 'ad, it didn't need the whole bleedin lot to get the job done, now did it??


End file.
